Not all berets and baguettes

In the months leading up to my trip to Paris, I sought advice from film, literature and people. According to most of these sources, Paris was either a romantic city of picturesque scenes that I'd "just love!" or a place that, despite its aesthetic grandeur, didn't merit any attention because of the snooty and stinky locals.

Seeing as I am already registered as a French major and it's a bit late to change my mind now, I chose to believe the former.

Unfortunately, when I landed in Paris, the city I'd seen courtesy of Jean-Luc Godard and Julie Delpy was nowhere to be found. I flew Air France with a little over twenty other Rutgers students on Friday night, June 14. After a three hour delay due to thunder in Newark, we crossed the Atlantic and landed at Charles de Gaulle in late afternoon. A chartered bus dropped us one by one at our hosts' apartments.

When we approached my street, we drove through a neighborhood that looked more like a midtown Manhattan sidestreet than what I'd expected of Paris. There were discount hair and nail salons, pizza and sandwich places, dive bars, and a few bums. As I exited the bus and the director led me toward my apartment, she warned me, "Try not to go down that street there at night; sometimes there are hookers. Nothing to worry about, they're kind of a joke, but still."

I don't know whose presence shocked me more, the pizza or the prostitutes. Why hadn't anyone told me Paris was a functioning city, with every imaginable type of person, before I left? I had expected women in pink Chanel suits with prissy dogs on leashes, and little kids running around gleefully throwing croissants at each other. A mime or two wouldn't have hurt, either.

I have yet to find anything resembling stereotypical Paris, partly because it is no longer Hemingway's postwar mecca for shrugging winos, and also because the only people who wear berets are screaming American eight-year-olds. Another important factor, though, is that the city seems to change its identity from block to block.

For example, I live right in the middle of four neighborhoods: the trendy Canal St. Martin district; a lively neighborhood of immigrants; a giant traffic circle full of chain stores (suburban NJ, is that you?); and a quiet collection of more traditional restaurants and bakeries. It takes me less than five minutes to walk to each of these places. It's like my own private microcosm of Paris itself.

Now I recognize that the variety in neighborhoods and types of people is what makes Paris different and exciting, even though at first I thought I was just witnessing a citywide identity crisis. The picturesque Paris you see on film and read about in books exists and it's breathtaking. However, it lies in a cluster of landmarks close to the Seine and overrun by tourists from Michigan and Germany. Strolling down the crowded Champs Elysees, you're lucky to hear a word of French. And Paris's personality, whatever it may be, hasn't much to do with the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Trionphe.

So I've finally grasped the fact that I'm in a functioning world capital rather than a section of Disney's Epcot. But even if I was staying right on the beautiful banks of the Seine, with a front row seat to the Eiffel Tower's light display, it just wouldn't be right. I prefer the smelly neighborhood full of nail salons and gyro vendors next door to my apartment, and that's not because I'm a fan of acrylic manicures or shady meat. It's because even though this neighborhood will never make it into a movie, it is an authentic slice of Parisian life. Plus it's home to a little chocolate shop with these sublime Earl Grey tea-flavored truffles that I can't resist.

I just tripled my knowledge of Paris. Make sure you don't become too famous there, though. It's said the French will name a street after you one day(Rue de Molly?)....and chase you down it the next day.